


The Odds Are Never in Our Favor

by blackcloudsarebehindme



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, F/F, Hunger Games, Hunger Games-Typical Death/Violence, M/M, Minor Character Death, Rebellion, Revolution, Slow Burn, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2019-07-28 17:21:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16246289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackcloudsarebehindme/pseuds/blackcloudsarebehindme
Summary: Markus and Connor have won the Games before- but can they do it again with the flames of Rebellion beginning to grow?





	1. The Reaping

**Author's Note:**

> So, in this universe, the Capitol only reaps one Tribute from each district instead of two. I wanted to combine the stories of both The Hunger Games and Catching Fire, so all the Tributes in this story are previous Victors. Markus won the Games a year before, during the 74th annual Hunger Games. More questions will be answered as the story continues, don't worry!

President Warren held her head high, satisfied in the loud applause that greeted her. She gave the adoring crowds of the Capitol a nod of approval and stepped to the podium and the cameras. She kept her face stoic, despite the wicked smiled that threatened to break across her features.  
  
There was adoration yes, but there was also fear. She craved it.  
  
The ceremony was being broadcast to every television in Panem. The people of the Capitol waited in ravenous hunger for what extra horrors awaited the Tributes in the Quarter Quell. The people of the districts waited in anxious horror. She held all of their attention and emotion in the palm of her hand. Despite all that, she only wanted one person watching.  
  
Markus.  
  
The District Twelve tribute had been unassuming at first. The twelfth District hardly had the resources to train and supply their tributes. They usually died early in the bloodbath surrounding the Cornucopia.  
  
Except Markus.  
  
He had captured the hearts of Panem and the Capitol. Those two eyes, one green and one blue, had showed the country a caring and strong man. There was no weakness in him, despite his aversion to violence. He was not scared of the Games, and he was obvious in his disdain for them. Warren had been eager to watch him die a bloody and painful death.  
  
But he hadn't. He had survived.  
  
He had played the waiting game. Watched from afar as the other Tributes cut each other down. He was the only Victor who had never taken a single life.  
  
And just when she thought he couldn't get worse, just when his hatred of the Games wasn't enough to worry the tension between the Capitol and the Districts, he had threatened suicide. Threatened to take away the celebration of his Victory. Threatened to make every death in the arena truly pointless, and threatened to fan the sparks of anger in the districts into flames.  
  
He had gotten away with it, for now. His face was plastered across Panem as a peaceful hero and as a rebel. She couldn't let it go any farther.  
  
According to myth, the rules of each Quarter Quell were written when the original Games were begun. The paper of each envelope was golden with age and the wax of the Capitol's seal was crumbling.

It was a good myth.

She curled her fingers around the envelope and cracked the seal, pulling out the paper that would determine their future. She smiled out into the cameras, into each citizen's home. She would teach them all they couldn't threaten her, not without revenge.

“And now, in celebration of the 75th Annual Hunger Games, the stipulations written by our forefathers are as follows: the tributes in these Games will be reaped from the existing pool of Victors.”

 

* * *

 

Markus walked around the Seam, his hands deep in his pockets on the cold, foggy morning.

It was too early for trade, but he liked to come before the crowds. It was strange seeing the Seam empty when it was usually the center of what you could try and call a social center in Twelve. A baby's cry cut across the center of town like a knife, and echoed as he turned to get bread from the bakery.  
  
He liked Twelve. It was his home. Despite the hunger that hurt each person's belly and the poverty that spread like a disease from the mines, the people made it worth it. When he won, they showered him in gifts and praise. They had even come together and collected fabrics to see him the jacket he was wearing. He had come back a hero to these people, and their happiness had brought some life back into Twelve. Maybe even some hope.  
  
He entered the bakery, the bell ringing lightly as the door closed behind him. The baker looked up from inspecting her oven, smiling when she saw him.  
  
"Markus." She greeted, and wiped the flour off her hands.  
  
"Hello, Raina." He nodded. "A loaf of bread, please."  
  
"Is that all? I have a batch of cookies that'll be done soon. I'm sure Carl would like some."  
  
"I'm sure he would, but I'm trying to watch his diet. He won't do it himself." Markus laughed.    
  
She packed the dark brown bread in a paper sack, some oats falling off and onto the counter. Markus took it from her, and handed her some coins.  
  
She shook her head, her face saddening. "No, no. I...I heard about what happened. I'm sorry."  
  
Markus only nodded and went back into the dark of the morning.  
  
Back into the arena. He'd have to go back. Carl and him were the only surviving Victors, and Markus would rather die than have Carl go back into the Games.  
  
He got back to Carl's home just when the sun was breaking across the horizon, painting Twelve in blue and gold. The Seam was just starting to awaken too, the sounds of people going out to tend to what animals they had and miners getting ready to head into the caves. He placed the loaf on Carl's dining room table, and reached for a knife to slice it.  
  
_A girl lay dying on the ground beneath him, with too many stab wounds to count. She twitched as her blood stained the grass around her, and Markus wanted to puke but he couldn't, because then they would hear, and, Gods, he didn't want to die-_  
  
The knife fell to the ground in a loud, angry clatter. He clutched the cool wood of the table and tried to even his breathing. Another vision. Another awful memory. He looked up the large staircase and listened for sounds of waking. He hoped he hadn't woken Carl. He needed air.  
  
He went out through the back door. The Victors' Circle in Twelve ran along the fence that was meant to keep things out. Everyone knew it was really meant to keep them in. It was supposed to be electric, but Twelve had no energy to spare from the mines. The crouched under where he'd cut the fence, escaping to the open wilderness.  
  
_He stood in the center of the field. He was the last one left. The bodies left over from the Feast littered the Cornucopia, and the booming of the cannons was still echoing in his ears._

_He won._

_But in the hot air, with only bodies and blood around him, he had never felt so lost._

 

* * *

 

Connor hadn’t been to Three in years. He hadn’t needed to. Hank was the only person in the world Connor considered family, and Hank was Home as long as he had a bottle of alcohol to keep him company. Back in Three, Connor had no one. Just a scrappy orphan putting together phones and tablets for the wealthy in the Capitol until he had been reaped. Now the Capitol was his home, as much as he hated it.

Connor was the Capitol’s favorite. He was ruthless, machine-like, and beautiful. Not that that’s what Connor thought of himself - it’s what most of the people from the Capitol he’d met had said. A lie said over and over again until the compliment had become numb. It had been whispered into his skin and then discarded until it was worthless. He wasn’t beautiful - he was accessible, and in the Capitol, Victory in the arena made anyone attractive. The Capitol sheltered him, made him a hero. Three just gave him pain and dark memories. All it could give him were the people he once knew staring into him to weigh his soul as the killer he was. And he’d have to kill again.

He stood alongside Hank with the handful of Victors from District Three. They were lucky that they had so many- more than the poorer districts. But Connor knew. Fate liked to fuck with him more often than not, and Connor knew in his bones that his name would be called and he’d have to go back into the Arena.

“It’s okay, son.” Hank said, whispering underneath the shrill voice of the man on stage. Connor hadn’t even realized how much he had been shaking- he squeezed his hands together tightly.

“Now,” the man said, smiling brightly, “To decided our Tribute.” His hand floated above the large glass bowl filled with their names. He slowly selected one, the sound of him unfolding it transferring loudly into the microphone in front of him.

“Hank Anderson.”

Connor stopped. What? He looked at Hank, his eyes wide with shock. No, no.

Hank was already ready to placate him, squeezing his hands as he tried to move past him and onto the stage. No, not Hank. Hank couldn’t-

Connor couldn’t let him-

A slow clapping echoed across the town square as Hank, accompanied by Peacekeepers, walked toward the stage. Connor felt panic gripping his lungs and his heart, clawing at his insides. He couldn’t lose Hank.

“Wait!” He shouted, and all the eyes and cameras turned to him. “I volunteer!”

“No!” Hank shouted, but Connor couldn’t listen. He walked to the center of the town square. Everyone was frozen.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Connor barked angrily. “I volunteer as Tribute!”

 

* * *

 

The day of the reaping was a mere formality. It was almost laughable. Of the large bowl provided, only two slips of paper were in it. Markus and Carl were side by side, waiting in the area where usually hundreds waited to hear who would be executed by the state. Markus remembered waiting last year, among the hundred or so other children of the Seam.

_The youngest of them cried, begging to be back with their parents. It was too real, all of the sudden, after years of watching the Games. All of the sudden, they looked among their friends and realized one of them would be gone. All of the sudden, a parent would be left childless, and be forced to watch their child die before the whole nation. All of the sudden, their own life could be over before it really begun. Markus couldn’t let Carl lose his only biological son, so before the Peacekeepers put Leo on the stage, he volunteered._

Despite the odds, Markus made it home. Leo  died in a mining accident, and everything was as it would have been. The Games had changed nothing. They had only changed everything.

He looked around, and saw many of the same faces. Had it been any other year, they would be standing where he was. Maybe it was better this way.  
  
"Promise me, Carl." Markus said, whispering underneath the propaganda film they always showed. "Promise if they pick me you won't volunteer."  
  
"Markus..." Carl shook his head, his hands shaking underneath Markus' grip.  
  
Markus squeezed his hand, his thumb brushing over the fragile skin.  
  
"Alright. I promise."  
  
Just as the announcer took the stage, Markus smiled down at his father.  
  
"I love you, Dad."  
  
"And the tribute for District 12 is..."  
  
"Markus Manfred."

Markus let his father’s hand slip from his, and made his way slowly to the stage. There was no cheering, no pretend excitement for the Games. The announcer’s lonely applause was the only sound in the Seam, and it faded under the crushing weight of somber silence. He looked out to his family; these people helped him survive, and he took care of them. They had faced starvation and mine collapses and disease and the Games all their lives. He felt the weight of their stares, the sadness.

Underneath it all, rage.

He’d heard rumors of unrest. There were always rumors: a strike in Six, a burned factory in Nine, a riot in Five. But now, he understood.

In the quiet, the whole Seam watched as Carl raised his fingers to his lips, kissing the tips gently in a three-fingered salute. It was a sign of respect in Twelve, of peace after a death or hope after a mine collapse. Markus’ lips quivered, his father's face weary but determined. Slowly, the other people of Twelve followed, and a sea of signs appeared before him. He couldn't say it, not really, but it was hidden underneath everything:

Rebellion.

Thunderous stomping brought them out of their stupor as three Peacekeepers approached Carl’s wheelchair. They picked him up by the collar and threw him onto the ground, his useless legs crumbling underneath him.

“Carl!” He cried, and Peacekeepers grabbed him to keep him from running over to help him. “No, Carl!”

His father clutched at the ground, groaning as he tried to push himself up. His eyes met Markus’, sad but resigned, and a Peacekeeper pulled his gun and shot him point-blank.

Markus’ screams echoed across the Seam, and he knew the sound of that bullet would haunt him for the rest of his life.


	2. The Capitol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Markus and Connor meet; Anger grows

Markus cried as the train pulled out of Twelve. 

 

The Seam had descended into chaos, the Peacekeepers threatening anyone who so much as walked in the wrong direction. Adults and children alike ran back to their homes-- Markus hadn’t seen much as he had been forced onto the train, no matter how much he kicked and begged. 

 

Carl’s body was probably still lying cold in the square. 

 

Markus’ fist shook. He looked around at the beautiful train car, packed full of enough food to feed everyone in Twelve for a week. He hated it, hated the Games, hated Panem-- 

 

He picked up a bottle of liquor and threw it across the car, and it shattered violently, the golden liquid splashing across the windows. Angry tears fell down his cheeks just as they entered the high speed tunnel.

 

Bright red graffitti caught his eye just as the darkness of the tunnel descended.

 

**The odds are never in our favor.**

* * *

Hank was angry with him, he knew. He had forced himself to Connor’s side when he volunteered, his glares alone keeping the Peacekeepers from taking him away. Connor was silent as they put him on the train to the Capitol-- he had no one to say goodbye to. 

 

Hank stewed and instantly grabbed a bottle off the table. He would get over it, eventually, just had to drink himself into unconsciousness first. Connor couldn’t let Hank go back in the Games, because, underneath it all, Hank was a good man. 

 

_ Connor had been silent on the train, without anyone to say goodbye to. The man set to be his mentor sat across from him, eyeing him closely.  _

 

_ “How old are you?” He asked.  _

 

_ “Sixteen.” Connor answered evenly, watching the windows as they left his home.  _

 

_ “Most of the kids cry.” Hank said, and sipped his glass if liquor.  _

 

_ Connor turned back to him. “Most other kids are afraid of dying.”  _

 

From that first meeting Hank had warmed up to him-- he seemed to appreciate Connor’s apathy. Connor was quick, smart, and different than the tributes before him. Connor saw Hank hope-- hope that he would win, hope that he wouldn’t get close to another kid just for him to die in the Arena. Connor was a natural fighter, but he didn’t know how to survive. For every knife he threw in training, Hank taught him how to build a fire, how to trap prey, how to walk so no one could hear you. It saved his life more than once in the Arena, because the Games were more than just killing. For the first time, Connor cared about himself, had to worry about his survival. He wanted to survive; he wanted to come back to Hank and see Sumo again and  _ live _ . For the first time, Connor had something to live for. 

 

For the first time Connor was afraid of dying. 

 

Fear made you do awful things. Connor glanced down at his hands-- he was a killer. He was a monster. So, no, he couldn’t let Hank go back in the Arena. He’d rather die than have him have to live through that again. 

 

* * *

 

As the train came from out of the tunnel, Markus was able to see the Capitol laid out before him. It was just as glittering as last time, with large neon images and chrome skyscrapers that looked like jewels in the night. Markus had to admit it was beautiful, with escapism just as accessible as the food. The people here were too sheltered to see anything else. To them, the colors were dull and the food was boring and the only thing that compelled them anymore was the promise of bloodshed.   
  
The whole Capitol was decorated in reds and golds in celebration of the Quarter Quell. Markus blinked in surprise at seeing his face flickering across a building, next to the portraits of past Victors that had been reaped. The train stopped at the station, where hundreds of avid fans were waiting.   
  
For him?   
  
He left the train, and tried his best not to fall over at the deafening applause he was greeted with. They chanted his name in response, eager to have his gaze come their way. He gave them a half-smile and a wave. As much as he wanted to damn them all to hell, to make them pay for every death, for Carl's death- he couldn't. Sponsors could mean life or death in the Games, and life meant another day to fight.   
  
The Peacekeepers weren't far behind. Two had been at his side ever since the reaping, just in case he had any...rebellious tendencies. They ushered him into a car, and he was whisked off to the penthouse that held the tributes.   
  


* * *

  
  
Markus was hyper-aware that the Capitol was watching him. If not in the crowd or on the screen, but the whispers behind hands of the unfortunate death that occurred at the reaping. The live feed had conveniently cut before the people could really see what happened to Carl, before they had thrown him to the ground and executed him before the entire Seam.   
  
His eyes glanced around the room, and he startled at a woman slashing at a dummy with her dagger. Markus recognized her- she was the Tribute from One. He remembered her Games well. She was as smart as she was pretty. She had fought her way to the top through ruthless manipulation of her allies and a deadly knowledge with a knife. North, that was her name.   
  
The next tribute he recognized was the girl from Five: her name was Kara. Her hair was chopped short, different than the footage he'd seen. She had volunteered when a 12-year-old girl had been reaped. Most people didn't expect her to win, but she had proved to be the best survivor of the bunch. Her games had been set in a wintry wilderness. Not many people were actually killed that year- most had either frozen or starved.   
  
A man stumbled into him, and Markus fell forward. "I'm sorry-" he started, and stopped. Despite the shaggy hair and stink of booze, it was Hank Anderson. Hank had been the best his year; he was known for his brute strength and shocking win. But he hadn't been reaped...who was here from Three?   
  
Hank stumbled over to a young man and Markus could only see the outline of his shoulders in a tight-fitting training suit. The back was outlined in geometric white lines and bright blue LED's. District Three was the District of Tech, after all. He saw him turn back to watch the Peacekeepers at the doors, and that's when he recognized him: it was Connor.   
  
He was the golden-child of the Games and the Capitol. He was cold, analytical, and ruthless during the Games. Connor had taken the most lives in recent Games history, and he became a celebrity after them. As far as Markus knew, he'd lived in the Capitol ever since.   
  
For a brief moment, Connor's eyes met his. Connor gave him a once-over and his eyes narrowed slightly. With a glare, he turned back to his target, and sunk an arrow into the center. 

 

* * *

 

The simulated targets appeared and disappeared just as quickly, the arrows from Connor's quiver sinking into the foam of the walls. As soon as he released one arrow, his eyes found the next target, and he planned accordingly.   
  
Hit one target, hit the next one.   
  
Ever since the Games, he'd had routines to rely on. How to deal with the Capitol, the stress, the nightmares. Even Hank was a routine, in his support and his drunkenness.   
  
The metal of the arrow barely touched his fingers before it flew past, landed with barely a sound into the foam -   
  
The arrow suck into the other tribute - Connor didn't even know their name - and with a sickening scream they clutched at the cool metal. It was protruding from their stomach, and they fell to the ground, crying out in pain, and they couldn't be any younger than Connor. Connor wanted to run, wanted to vomit, but he had to survive.   
  
Connor blinked and he was back, and three new targets had appeared on the wall. Ever since he'd come back he'd had more memories, more flashbacks. 

  
He shot the last three targets perfectly.   
  
The simulation slowly flickered out and the lights in the room came on. He slung the arrow across his chest and went out into the main training room, where the other Tributes were preparing.   
  
North, the Victor from One, was sparing with a dummy with two daggers. It was probably the fifth dummy she'd destroyed today. Everyone else kept to themselves; this training was a mere formality. There was nothing here that could help them more than the experience of already having been in the Arena. Just hone your skills and prepare to kill everyone around you.   
  
Even Markus.   
  
Connor hung up the bow in its case and the arrows beside it, and tried his best to be inconspicuous. The Victor from Twelve seemed lost in his own world; he was painting with the dyes. The scene seemed to be a sunset of some kind; maybe it was a sunrise, but Connor couldn't tell.   
  
He stepped closer, and could make out the changing hues of pink and gold. The closer it got to the sun, the brighter the colors became, until a burnt orange color surrounded the star. Markus seemed to be adding colors to the ocean beneath the sun to reflect it.   
  
Before he realized it, he was close enough to be obvious, and Markus looked up at him. The other man only blinked a few times, his expression totally unreadable. Connor never noticed before, but Markus' eyes were two different colors-   
  
"So, what do you think?" Markus said, sitting back and gesturing at his work.   
  
Connor furrowed his brow. Why did Markus care what he thought? After a few moments, he looked back at the painting, and tilted his head.   
  
"Is it setting? Or rising?" He asked, looking closer at where the transitioning colors met and faded.   
  
Markus looked back at his work too. "I don't know."   
  
How did he not know? He was there one who made it. Connor looked away and instead focused on taking his gloves off. He could feel Markus' gaze on him.   
  
"Which do you think it is?" Markus asked, and smiled at him.   
  
Connor was confused. Why was Markus being so friendly? Even if he stuck with his peace-promise, the other Tribute would either have to watch him die or die by Connor's hands. Wasn't it easier to not pretend?   
  
After a few moments, Connor spoke. "Setting."   
  
Markus didn't say anything to that, and set the dues back down. His hands were covered in a rainbow of colors, and barely any dye came off when he wiped them off with a towel. Connor watched each movement carefully.   
  
"How long?" He asked. He was afraid to ask the whole question.   
  
"Hm?" Markus asked, and stood up beside him. Even though he was taller, he wasn't intimidating. In fact, Markus had an odd, almost calming effect on him-   
  


Gods, this place was affecting him more than he thought.   
  
"How long until you have to kill?" Connor said, turning to face Markus head-on.   
  
Markus blinked a few times, and then sighed. "Hopefully, I won't have to."   
  
"You know they won't let you." Connor sighed, and shook his head. The Capitol wouldn't let Markus get away with it a second time. Markus only shrugged.   
  
"Then that's that, I suppose." Markus said. Bile rose in Connor's throat; in guilt or anger, he didn't know.   
  
"I'm sorry about your father," Connor said, the words sour in his mouth. He left then. He couldn't bring himself to look back at Markus.   
  


* * *

  
  
Markus entered the penthouse, the lights flickering on slowly. The apartment was large and high-fashion, at least by Capitol standards. It was clean lines and modern furniture- the opposite of the warm, eccentric designs of Carl’s home in the Victor’s Village. The Capitol must have figured the District Twelve tributes that came to die deserved to have some luxury in their lives-- at least a little, before they were brutally murdered for entertainment. The apartment was big and he was alone- now more than ever. 

 

He was tired. He’d spent too long crying, too long awake, too long wishing things had been different. If only he’d have been faster, if only Carl hadn’t done anything, if only he’d done as the Capitol wanted, if only he had never volunteered, if only there were no Games at all--

 

The walls of his bedroom were holographic, showing intricate geometric designs in low blue and green colors. He pressed the button on the small remote by his bed, and the scenery changed- a bustling city, a grassy plain, a beach- 

 

A forest.

 

Suddenly he was back in Twelve. Suddenly he felt their anger, their mourning. His eyebrows furrowed as he watched the peaceful trees and the whistling birds. No more. No more killing, no more violence, no more decadence, no more starvation. No more Games. 

 

The odds were never in their favor, so he would change the game.    
  


  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you have any questions about the world of Panem they leave in, leave a comment

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr @reyskywclker. Please leave a comment- they really help me out!


End file.
